


The World Well Lost

by oliviacirce



Category: Society of Gentlemen - K. J. Charles
Genre: Families of Choice, M/M, Missing Scenes, sex and feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 07:54:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8882389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacirce/pseuds/oliviacirce
Summary: Or, Five Times Francis Webster Was (Also) Thoroughly Ruined.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yeoldecatteladie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeoldecatteladie/gifts).



> Warnings for: Period-typical homophobia, Ash's terrible family, and idiots in love.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who helped with this (which was a whole boatload of awesome people, since I basically failed a secrecy), but especially Emily, Eleanor Lavish, mistresscurvy, wildestranger, helcinda, loverave, and my book club. Thanks also to K. J. Charles for giving us the incredible gift that is this series, and to harriet_vane for loving Ash the most.

**I.**

_London, Autumn 1818_

"What the devil were you thinking?" Dominic said mildly, once the door to the private meeting room was shut behind them. He leaned against the closed door, exuding the air of deadly calm that made him a dangerous man to cross, whatever his private peccadilloes. 

Francis dropped heavily into a chair. If Dominic had shouted at him, he could have shouted back, ridden the wave of anger and frustration into the fight he still rather desperately wanted. Instead, his fury had all run out of him in a rush, leaving him cold and shaken and suddenly, terribly afraid. "I—" he started, and stopped. "God." 

"Quite." Dominic studied him, dark eyes serious. "Francis," he said, after a moment, "I know your quarrel with Maltravers is not only longstanding but genuine. I know—no, don't interrupt," he said sharply, and Francis subsided. "I know he treated you abominably, and deserves whatever retribution can be levelled against him. But ruining his brother—no matter what that young idiot may have brought on himself—ruining his _brother_ is not the action of the gentleman I know you to be." 

It was almost laughable. At any other time, under any other circumstances, Francis would have taken extreme umbrage to Dominic's words. His father and his father's father had fought tirelessly for the fortune that had made Francis a gentleman worthy of respect, that had sent him to Eton and Oxford and allowed his sister to marry a lord, that had forced highest society to accept and honour them. Francis knew what he was worth, and not even the years of bruises inflicted by Maltravers and his cronies had changed that. But in this, he knew, he was hardly a gentleman at all. Dominic was right about that, even if he was wrong about the reasons. 

He could still see the look in Lord Gabriel's gorgeous, impossible eyes: brazen and challenging, demanding his attention, throwing himself down across the card table from Francis and offering himself up in every way but the one Francis wanted. In truth, what he wanted from Lord Gabriel—what he wanted to _do_ to Lord Gabriel—had long since ceased having anything whatsoever to do with Maltravers, or with the entire accursed Ashleigh family. But Francis hadn't spoken of his feelings to anyone, not even to Dominic. Dominic, who Francis had met at Oxford, and then again in their first uncertain days in London society; Dominic, with whom Francis had forged one of a bare handful of true friendships, and, with Richard and Absalom and the others, carved a path through society that preserved his autonomy and his secrets; Dominic, who knew Francis better than almost anyone—not even he knew how Francis felt about Lord Gabriel Ashleigh. 

There was the sound of heavy booted feet on the stairs, and Dominic moved out of the way just as Richard and Julius came through the door. Richard's face was thunderous, and behind him Julius was a pale, impeccable shadow. "What the devil were you thinking, Francis?" Richard demanded. 

"It's been said," Dominic murmured, moving to stand by the fire. "I'm still waiting for an answer." 

"For heaven's sake, that foolish young hound should have known better than to challenge Webster at the tables." Julius came around Richard and flung himself down on the settee. "It's not Webster's fault. Everyone knows he's merciless, and hates the boy's brother." Francis usually appreciated Julius's particular brand of amoral unconcern, but tonight it made him want to throttle him. 

"Be quiet, Julius," Richard snapped, evidently feeling much the same. "You know perfectly well that we cannot afford a scandal of this magnitude. We preserve our safety only through our conduct and moral character." 

"Be damned to your morality, Richard," Julius muttered, but he subsided under the force of Richard's glare. 

"Where—" Francis began, and listened with horror as his voice broke on the word. "What happened to Lord Gabriel?" he tried again, more steadily. Dominic had dragged him upstairs as soon as the game had reached its natural conclusion, ignoring Lord Gabriel's continued protests and demands. 

"Shakespeare threw him out," Richard said. "After that display, he can hardly be welcome here." Something in Francis's face must have given him away, because Richard added, "Lord Gabriel and his friend were both very badly foxed, so Quex also sent a footman to follow them discreetly and assure they make it safely home." 

Francis let out a breath he'd been unaware he was holding, and Richard raised his eyebrows. "Are you really so concerned for the boy, Francis? After taking him for everything but his coat?" 

"Oh God," Francis said thickly, and dropped his face into his hands. 

There was a very long silence, broken finally by Julius's cool, insouciant voice saying, "Well, I suppose _that_ puts a rather different spin on things." 

Francis couldn't bear to look at any of them, and was glad for it when Richard said furiously, "It makes it worse. Francis, I thought better of you." 

The worst part was that Richard was right. Francis hated when Richard was right, but there was a reason he was the person to whom they all brought their problems, the moral sun around which their little society revolved. Francis should have put a stop to the ill-fated card game as soon as Lord Gabriel sat down; instead, he had taken everything Lord Gabriel possessed because he couldn't have him. It was unconscionable behaviour, and Francis would be very well served if Richard threw him out of Quex's on Lord Gabriel's heels. 

He lifted his head and forced himself to meet Richard's eyes. "I thought better of myself," he said, and threw himself on Richard's mercy. "I don't know what to do. How do we—how do I fix this?" 

Richard hissed out a breath between his teeth, and then, finally, sat down. "I don't suppose you can simply give it back?" 

Dominic and Julius both protested at once. Francis was grateful to them, because the sudden wave of hot, all-consuming outrage stopped his voice: he didn't _want_ to give it back. He had won Lord Gabriel's possessions, his money, his home, and he wanted, desperately and shamefully, to keep them. 

"No, of course not." Richard waved Dominic and Julius down. "His pride would never allow it, and it would only increase the scandal. Well, then, could he win it back?" 

It was an elegant solution, if only Lord Gabriel could play a hand of piquet to save his life. "It would never work," Francis said, recovering his voice. "He's not a gamester. Even if he was—Dominic, you've seen him at the tables, what do you think?" 

Dominic winced expressively, and shook his head. "Unfortunately, Francis is right. I highly doubt Lord Gabriel could win against him." 

Richard frowned, and they all fell into silence, until a new voice said, "My lord, gentlemen, if I might make a suggestion?" It was Richard's ubiquitous valet. Francis hadn't even heard him come in. They all turned to look at him; standing by the door in Richard's dark green livery, his hair powdered white, he looked like the carved statue of a valet, bought to perfectly compliment the room. Richard opened his hand, giving him permission to speak. 

"The solution is quite simple," Cyprian said, "Mr Webster must let Lord Gabriel win." 

Francis was on his feet before he realised what he was doing. "How dare you," he snapped, relieved to finally turn his anger on someone other than himself. How _dare_ Richard's damned valet insult him—and then Richard had a heavy hand on his arm and was pushing him back down into his chair. 

"Sit down, Francis. Cyprian, Mr Webster is a gentleman, and does not cheat at cards." 

"Of course, my lord," Cyprian agreed. "Mr Webster, I apologise." He inclined his head. "Under the circumstances, however, there may not be a better alternative." Cyprian's intelligent brown eyes met Francis's, and Francis had the extremely unpleasant sensation of being measured and found wanting by another man's valet. "Lord Gabriel may flee to the continent," Cyprian went on, "or worse. Lord Maltravers may choose to make himself extremely unpleasant, and Mr Webster's reputation is in grave danger. Lord Gabriel is foolish, but he is well-liked, and few would wish to see him ruined." He glanced at Richard, and added, "Sometimes, one must do what one must to preserve what one has." He made a small, open-handed gesture at the room, taking in Quex's, their sanctuary; Richard and Dominic and Julius and Francis, their secrets. 

"Thank you, Cyprian," Richard said quietly, and Cyprian bowed and went out. 

"Richard," Julius sighed. "You do not deserve your valet." 

"I'm aware." Richard turned back to Francis. "Francis, you know I would never suggest—" 

"No," Francis said hollowly. He felt emptied out, weary and ashamed and frightened. Whatever he did, he would be compromised; Lord Gabriel was not the only one who could be ruined by what he'd done tonight. "I understand, Richard. Your accursed valet put it very well. We do what we must." 

"I hate to mention this," Dominic said, coming over to perch on the end of the settee not occupied by Julius, "but what if Francis can't make Lord Gabriel win it back? He could be too proud, or refuse to play." 

"Oh Lord," Richard groaned, and tilted his head back for a moment, closing his eyes. He looked utterly fatigued, Francis thought, like he'd been battling demons in the night. Francis could relate. "I don't know, Dominic, but can we discuss it in the morning? It's nearly four o'clock. For now, Francis—" 

"Yes." Francis stood up, gathering up the pile of paper from the table—banknotes and notes of hand, vouchers and scribbled promises—and tucking them into the pockets of his waistcoat. The paper felt heavier than it should have, weighing down his heart. "I'll write to Lord Gabriel and request him to attend me tomorrow night. I'll do what I can, to make him win it back." If he was lucky, if he did it right, then maybe it would only be Francis who was ruined.

*

Afterwards—after Francis had lost his head once again, but with much more pleasurable results; after he'd taken Gabriel upstairs to bed, and finally undressed while Gabriel watched, eyes shining and mouth red and bitten and gorgeous; after he'd fucked Gabriel for a second time, slower and sweeter but no less desperate—Francis lay awake with Gabriel asleep on his chest, trying to remember how to breathe. In his arms, Gabriel was more solid than Francis had imagined, more real; even naked and spent and tangled together in Francis's own bed, it seemed impossible that Francis could have him. 

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this happy. 

"I love you," he whispered, experimentally, "Gabriel." Gabriel stirred, curls tickling Francis's chin, but he didn't wake up. It was for the best; even after five years of thwarted desire, it was far too soon to say it and be believed. But Francis knew how to wait. What mattered, tonight, was that Gabriel—beautiful, impossible, foolish, brave, vastly underestimated Gabriel Ashleigh—was his, and if they were ruined, then they were ruined together. 

**II.**

_Arrandene, August 1819_

Harry Vane, Ash had decided, was quite a decent fellow. It was a shame about his parents, of course, but that couldn't be helped, and you wouldn't know it to speak with him—his dress and manner were a good sight better than many gentlemen of Ash's acquaintance. Harry was friendly and lively and amusing in a comfortable sort of way, without the cutting, sardonic edge of Francis or Julius. And it was particularly pleasant to have someone nearer his own age among the Ricardians. The Ricardians had welcomed Ash into their number with remarkable warmth, and they were his friends now, too, not merely Francis's. But they were all such dashed serious fellows. It was hard to imagine Lord Richard Vane or Mr Julius Norreys playing at spillikins in the garden. 

Ash grinned, picturing it, and accidentally caught Harry's eye across the card table. Harry grinned back, sharing in Ash's amusement even though he couldn't know what Ash was thinking. That was another thing Ash liked about Harry: he had an easy smile, and seemed at home in his own skin in a way that Ash rather thought he would have envied a year ago, before Francis. There was something in that smile—and in the way his eyes tracked Julius whenever he was in the room—that made Ash wonder if Harry was entirely in the petticoat line. 

Francis tapped Ash's wrist sharply, reclaiming his attention. "Your deal, Gabriel." 

Ash winced and turned his attention back to the cards. They were playing piquet. Or rather, Harry and Ash were playing piquet, while Francis made scathing remarks. Ash had been playing piquet under Francis's tutelage for nearly a year, and he was better than Harry—but not, truly, by very much. 

"Oh, don't bother," Harry said cheerfully, flinging down his cards. "I'm clean out." They'd been playing for raisins, and he pushed his across the table to Ash. Ash absently popped one into his mouth, and then froze when Francis's hazel eyes narrowed. "Thank you for the lesson, Webster," Harry went on, bounding to his feet. "I'd best go see where Julius has got to." 

"By all means," Francis said dryly. He was still looking at Ash. Behind Harry, the door of the study closed with a soft click. 

Ash swallowed, with difficulty. "I quite like Harry, don't you?" 

"Tolerable." Francis looked away, and then picked up Harry's abandoned cards and began folding them back into the deck. Ash's eyes were drawn inevitably to his hands: his long fingers handling pasteboard as deftly as they handled Ash. "He's commanding rather a lot of your attention, my Gabriel." 

Ash blinked. Francis's voice was cool and inflectionless, the way it always got when he was trying to rein in his feelings. "Francis. Are you _jealous_?" 

"Of a puppy like young Vane?" Francis scoffed. "Hardly." 

"You _are_ ," Ash said gleefully, delighted. " _Francis_." 

Francis shuffled the full deck with the same deliberate show of consummate skill that always left Ash feeling a bit breathless, and then set the neat stack of cards down on the table. "I am merely wondering," he said mildly, "if you've noticed that you won that game of piquet." 

"I—Oh." He _hadn't_ noticed—but then, he hadn't been playing Francis. 

"Mmm. Admittedly, you then proceeded to eat your winnings." 

"They didn't count," Ash said, laughing. "Besides, I wasn't playing you, so—" 

Francis smiled, sudden and dangerous; when he smiled like that, the corners of his thin mouth promised things that made the hairs on Ash's arms stand on end. His breeches felt damnably tight. "I believe the wager stands." 

"God," Ash said, feelingly. It was one of a dozen wagers they had between them, but not one they'd had a chance to put to use, since Ash rarely won at piquet. Francis refused to let him win—not that Ash would have allowed it—and Ash found it difficult to care when playing anyone else. But tonight, with Francis watching, with Francis instructing Harry, Ash had won. 

Francis raised one slanted eyebrow, and the challenge in his eyes was as good as a hand on Ash's prick, sending heat rushing through him. "Tell me what you want, Gabriel." 

Ash's gaze skipped sideways, almost involuntarily, to the desk that dominated the room. It was a big desk, built for a big man—Richard was taller than either of them, and much broader than Francis—heavy and intricately carved in a dark wood that suited the style of Arrandene. Francis, when Ash glanced back at his face, had his lips slightly parted, breath coming a little too fast; Ash could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the faint flush along his narrow cheekbones, and _God_ , Ash wanted. These last eleven months had been an exercise in decadence, and perhaps Ash should have felt ashamed of his excesses. His father and his brothers were certainly convinced that his associations were shameful, and they didn't know the worst of it. But before Francis, Ash hadn't known what it was to feel the bone-deep satisfaction of knowing that what he wanted mattered, to have his desires met and matched, returned and shared and increased in the wanting. 

He stood, and reached out to pull Francis up with him. Francis's eyes were bright in the candlelight, and Ash slid one hand into his fine, straight hair and drew him down for a kiss. "You," he said into Francis's ear. "Just you, no one else. " 

Francis snorted, amused, and put his hands on Ash's shoulders to shove him gently back. "I know that, you sapskull," he said fondly. "But it's winner's choice. How do you want me?" 

"Over that desk," Ash clarified, breathlessly, and began backing Francis toward the desk. He put his weight into it and Francis let him, going to work on the front fall of Ash's breeches at the same time. Francis's fingers were quick, and skilled, and he had Ash in hand a moment before his own arse was against the edge of the desk. "Francis," Ash gasped, and kissed him, rough and deep with intent. 

Francis hooked one long leg around Ash's hips and pulled him in; his boots were still on—they were both still fully dressed—and Ash was suddenly desperate for skin. "Get these off," he demanded, running a hand up the back of Francis's buckskinned thigh. 

"Leave them on," Francis countered, but he shoved Ash's breeches and drawers down all at once, far enough to free his cock. Then he let go of Ash and stood, half-leaning on the desk with poised, quivering tension in every line of his elegant form. "Ruin them." 

Ash stared, shocked. Francis's coat was a masterpiece of Mr Cheney's tailoring, superbly cut in a bottle green that brought out the green in his eyes; his waistcoat and buckskin breeches were perfection; his boots—though lacking the impenetrable shine of Richard's—gleamed; his linen was spotless. His cravat had been loosened somewhat by Ash's ministrations, and his present erection tented his breeches obscenely, but Francis's clothes were worth a small fortune in cloth alone—as Ash now knew, after eleven months in Francis's intimate company. 

"But—" His voice died in his throat when Francis undid his own buttons and pushed the cloth down, and then, slowly and deliberately, turned around to bend over the desk. His coat covered the bared curve of his arse, and Ash, against every instinct ingrained in a gentleman and utterly powerless to do anything else, shoved the coat tails aside to stroke his fingers down the cleft of Francis's arse. 

"Oil," Francis rasped, like Ash didn't know; he tore himself away to rummage through Richard's desk until he came up with a bottle—nearly full and very dusty, which told Ash rather more than he'd wanted to know about Richard's business—and then went back to work. 

He tried, at first, to keep the oil from getting on the coat, or even on Francis's linen, but Francis wouldn't let him, kept pressing back into his hands with frantic desperation, like they hadn't fucked a hundred times before. "Francis," Ash said helplessly, three fingers in him and the coat already beyond repair, "I—" 

Francis pushed up on his elbows and looked back over his shoulder. His eyes were smiling, and his mouth was bitten red, and the look he gave Ash was utterly devastating, full of challenge and heat. Ash still didn't know what he'd done to deserve that look—what he'd done, ever, to deserve Francis's love. 

"Ruin them," Francis said, low and rough and warm. "Ruin me." 

Ash shut his eyes, clinging desperately to control; he could not spend, not now, not yet. He caught his breath, and pushed into Francis on one long stroke. Francis gripped the far edge of the desk as Ash fucked him, slow at first, and then faster; Francis liked a good ride as much as Ash did. 

"Gabriel," Francis groaned, voice muffled against the wood of the desk. "More. Harder." 

"Oh Jesus, Francis," Ash gasped, and complied. Francis pushed back into him, meeting him stroke for stroke. Francis was impossibly hot around him, under him, his long limbs splayed over the desk, his coat twisted between them. "God, that's good. I love you. _Fuck_." 

Francis made a wordless, heated sound of pleasure; Ash mustered just enough presence of mind to reach down between them and wrap his fist around Francis's cock. He managed two hard pulls before Francis cried out and came, and that was the end of Ash: he was spending fiercely, utterly overcome. 

He rested his damp forehead against the back of Francis's ruined coat, catching his breath, until Francis made an uncomfortable noise and Ash withdrew. His legs shook under him as he tried to stand, so he slid sideways onto the desk instead, catching himself on Francis's shoulder. After a moment, he wiped his sticky hands on Francis's sleeve. Francis laughed, and turned over onto his side. "I love you, too," he said, and pressed a kiss to the corner of Ash's mouth. 

"Oh." Ash blushed. "Did I—again?" 

"Always in the moment, my Gabriel," Francis said fondly, and then looked down at himself and winced. "Good Lord, my valet is going to have my head on a platter." 

"Better burn those," Ash agreed, and made himself sit up. They could not truly lie on top of Richard's desk forever. His eyes caught on the door of the study, which was standing half-open. "Francis," he said slowly, trying to remember, "the door—wasn't it shut?" 

Francis sat up abruptly, swinging himself off the desk. "It was." For a moment, they both stared at the door, and then Francis let out a long breath. "There's nothing to worry about," he said, "this is Arrandene, Richard's house. We're safe here." 

Of course they were safe; the Ricardians protected one another, and even the servants were terrifyingly discreet. "I know," Ash said, thinking it through. "But—how long do you think whoever it was stood there watching us backgammoning on Richard's desk? Do you think he liked what he saw?" He could picture the two of them, what they must have looked like, and it made his heart beat a little too fast. " _I'd_ like it, if I got to watch." 

Francis turned his head and fixed Ash with one of his narrow, smoldering looks, focused and intent, amused and adoring, exasperated and covetous; it was a source of remarkable embarrassment, to Ash, that he had ever thought those looks were contemptuous. "You never cease to astonish me," Francis said, and pulled Ash up into a kiss. 

**III.**

_London, December 1819_

It was a cold winter, and the journey back to London from Arrandene had been icy and treacherous—though not much more treacherous, Francis thought, than Richard's mood had been. Whatever Richard's quarrel with Dominic, Francis wanted no part of it; he could almost bring himself to be grateful for the familial obligations that had required them to return to town before Christmas. Almost, but not quite. Not when he and Gabriel would be forced to part tomorrow, Gabriel to the dreaded Warminster Hall and Francis, much more pleasantly, to his sister's home in Lancashire. 

Francis sat back on his heels, warming his hands at the fire. Gabriel had given his servants the half holiday, and for tonight, at least, they were alone in the cosy warmth of Chamford House. 

He had loosened his cravat and lit the candles by the time Gabriel returned to the sitting room, barefoot and wrapped in his ridiculous silk dressing gown. He was absurdly proud of that dressing gown, despite—or perhaps because—of its lavish and somewhat vulgar embroidery. Francis intended to purchase him a new one, and had an appointment with his draper in Lancashire to select the fabric himself. Madder blue, to match Gabriel's eyes. 

Francis turned, finishing with the last of the candles, and Gabriel came straight across the room and into his arms, lifting his face to Francis's kiss. Francis kissed him slowly, warm and lingering; it was as far from their first kiss as could be imagined, nothing like the heated, desperate rush of that first night, and even so Francis's heartbeat accelerated. He wondered if the hot rush of desire would ever fade, ever stop feeling so new, so all-consuming. "Gabriel," he murmured, reverently, and Gabriel slid his hands under Francis's coat, flattening his palms against his chest through waistcoat and shirt. 

"Francis," he said, drawing back a little; his eyes were dark in the firelight. "Can we—" 

"You'll have to help me with my coat," Francis said. 

Gabriel smiled. "I haven't got a shilling." 

Francis laughed, startled; in the dreamlike silence of the room, broken only by the crackling fire and their own voices, the part of his mind that was always calculating exchanges had gone temporarily quiet. "Never mind that," he said, and turned around so that Gabriel could ease his coat off his shoulders and down his arms. The rich wool slid over his hands, and he turned back around just as Gabriel dropped the coat negligently over the back of a chair. 

"Better," Gabriel said, going to work on the buttons of Francis's waistcoat until it joined the coat over the chair, then helping Francis pull his shirt off over his head. Then Francis was simply standing there, bare-chested in the sitting room of Gabriel's house. It wasn't new, but tonight felt different, charged with something Francis couldn't quite name. "There you are," Gabriel said, hot eyes raking down Francis's chest to the waistband of his breeches, to his rapidly stiffening cock. 

Francis took Gabriel's hands and pulled him over to the couch in front of the fire. Instead of sitting down with him, though—or lying down with him, on a couch Francis well knew could bear their combined weight—Gabriel went to his knees at Francis's feet. Francis spread his thighs invitingly, and Gabriel bent his head, mouthing at Francis's prick through his breeches. It wasn't enough, but he shivered at the sensation nonetheless, and caught his breath when Gabriel drew back. 

"Sometimes I dream about that night," Gabriel said. 

Francis didn't have to ask what he meant, but Gabriel went on anyway, running a hand up Francis's booted calf. "You were so—I had no idea, and then you said unspeakable things to me, and I thought, I couldn't imagine—I thought of calling you out, it seemed so impossible that you would want me. _Me_ , out of everyone you could have, with Mal, and my family, and the way I'd been so cursed rude to you." Gabriel was talking very fast, hushed and a little rough, but when Francis lifted his foot, Gabriel pulled his boot off with hands as sure and certain as Francis's valet's, and much more intimate. Francis had a sudden shock of memory, of pressing his prick against the sole of Gabriel's foot the first time he'd taken off his boots, gamahuching him desperately on his knees on his drawing room floor. "When I wake up, and you're not there," Gabriel said, reaching for his other boot, "I am so afraid that this has all been a dream." 

"I know." Even with Gabriel beside him every night they could manage it, inseparable friends every day, Francis wanted more. He never wanted to doubt, never wanted to fear, never wanted to send Gabriel away to his appalling family for a cold, miserable, isolated week. Never wanted to visit his sister, with her adoring husband and brood of brats, and see the concern in Elizabeth's familiar hazel eyes, and be utterly unable to tell her—the one person who had never once believed in his icy, ruthless exterior—that he wasn't alone, that he was happy. 

With both of Francis's boots removed, Gabriel finally undid the front fall of Francis's breeches; Francis lifted his hips to ease his way as Gabriel pulled his breeches and drawers down, and then he was naked on the couch. Gabriel gazed up at him, bright-eyed and gorgeous, still on his knees. Francis slid his hands into his hair, fingers tangling in the golden curls. "I love you," he said softly, "my Gabriel. I've loved you since that first night, even if I could not say so. Since you gambled away your coat, since you staked your arse on a shilling." 

Gabriel turned his head into Francis's hand and kissed his palm. "I wish you'd kept my house," he said. "I wish you'd kept all of it. My coat, my shirt, my money. Aunt Lucie's legacy. Chamford House." 

" _What_?" Shocked, Francis stared down at him. Gabriel wasn't looking at him now, and his cheeks were flushed. 

"If you'd kept it, I'd belong to you." Gabriel bit his lip. "I—my house would be yours. You'd own me, you'd have won me by rights." He shook his head fiercely, eyes fixed at a spot on the carpet. "My father and Mal, they’re always so sure they know what's best. They think I belong to them, that I owe them my loyalty above all, and maybe I should. Maybe I'm wrong to want something else, but Francis—" He finally looked up again, and Francis was caught in the fathomless blue of his eyes. "I want to belong to you." 

"You do," Francis said helplessly. He knew what Gabriel wasn't saying, what he still couldn't bring himself to admit aloud, even while he rejected everything his family stood for: that they did not love him, that they did not value him or recognize his worth. Francis, in his most furious moments, wanted to burn the entire Warminster dukedom to the ground. If he had thought it would make any difference whatsoever, he would have taken great pleasure in horsewhipping Maltravers until he saw what he had neglected and mistreated and ignored, until he begged Gabriel's forgiveness and behaved as a brother ought. 

Maltravers was beyond saving, but Gabriel was not. Gabriel, who would give himself up to Francis without a moment's hesitation, with a trust that left Francis frankly breathless, was a gift beyond all the treasures in the world. The Ricardians had seen it the moment Francis had sheepishly introduced him to their society; even Gabriel's foolish friends, idiots like Freddy and Higham and young Harry Vane, sought out Gabriel's company. Francis wanted the whole world to see Gabriel's worth, to value him as he did. He would do everything in his power to be worthy. 

"You do belong to me," he said again, cupping Gabriel's cheek. "I don't need your house for that, and I shall take it quite amiss if you do not maintain your comfortable independence from your family and your standing in society, both of which you deserve." He traced his thumb along Gabriel's mouth, pressing inside when Gabriel's lips parted. "I only need you, in my bed for as long as you care to be there." 

Gabriel bit down lightly on his thumb. "Forever," he said, muffled by Francis's finger. Francis pulled his hand away, and Gabriel said, "I love you, Francis. I've never wanted anyone the way I want you, and for as long as you'll have me—" 

"God," Francis breathed, raggedly, and dragged Gabriel up off the floor. Gabriel was laughing as he came down on top of him, and Francis had his robe untied and was pushing it off his shoulders before he realised that Gabriel was wearing nothing at all beneath it. "You—" He groaned as the robe slithered to the floor and left Gabriel naked above him, grinning down at him from his suddenly superior vantage, and Francis dragged him down into a hot, frantic kiss. 

The kiss melted into another, and another after that, and Francis could almost have lost himself in the kissing, forgotten where they were and what they were doing—if it were not for the way they were pressed together, Gabriel straddling his lap and his rigid erection rubbing hotly against Francis's hip. His hands, not entirely under his conscious direction, moved down to grip Gabriel's arse, fingers sliding between his legs—and there, he encountered another surprise. Gabriel was already slick with oil. 

Francis tore his mouth away, gasping. " _Gabriel_." 

Gabriel reached down between them to grip Francis's prick, his hand sure and skilled and just a little too hard—hard enough to hold Francis back, to keep him from spending too soon. "Our first night," Gabriel said, "when you had me over your table. I wanted you to take me, and you were still so careful. Even after five years of waiting, you were so—" He shook his head, and then he was pushing up onto his knees and bearing down onto Francis's cock, taking all of him in one smooth slide. "Fuck me like that," he said breathlessly, fully seated, "and don't you dare be careful." 

Francis couldn't have looked away from him if Napoleon's entire army had come marching through the door. He gripped Gabriel's waist with both hands and planted his feet on the floor, thrusting into him with as much strength as he could, trying desperately to give him the ride he deserved. 

Gabriel threw his head back, crying out as Francis hit the right angle; he was wild with it, hands scrabbling at Francis's shoulders, at the back of the couch behind him. Francis fucked him hard, and he wasn't careful, but it was Gabriel who controlled their pace, Gabriel who shook with desperate pleasure, taking everything Francis could give him. 

"Francis, Francis—oh, Christ," he cried, just as he had that first night. " _Please_." 

"Darling," Francis said, unable to help himself, and Gabriel shuddered, fingers pressing painfully into his shoulder. "Don't spend." 

" _Francis_." 

"With me," Francis said, "my Gabriel, my love—" He thrust again. " _Mine_." He drove into him again and again, until they were both lost in it, frantic with pleasure, until Gabriel gave one last sobbing gasp and clenched around him, and both of them were coming at once. 

" _Jesus_ ," Gabriel said, collapsing forward against Francis's chest. Francis wrapped his arms around him and held him close. They were both sticky and slick with sweat, breathing hard; he stayed inside Gabriel until it became uncomfortable, and even then Gabriel made a soft, protesting noise as he withdrew. 

"I don't want to go to Warminster Hall, tomorrow," Gabriel said softly, at last. His voice was muffled against Francis's collarbone. 

"Shh," Francis murmured, stroking a hand down his spine. 

"I wish I could come with you to visit your sister," Gabriel went on, unheeding. "I wish—I don't know. I don't want to leave you. Francis—" 

Francis pressed a kiss to the top of Gabriel's head. "You have to," he said, as gently as he could. Every instinct he had cried out against letting Gabriel out of his sight, but he was not entirely a fool. Ruined, perhaps, his heart given over utterly into Gabriel's keeping, but not a fool. "Go, and come back to me." 

Gabriel lifted his head. The corners of his eyes were damp, and Francis brushed his thumb against his cheek, pressed a kiss to each eyelid. "Yes," Gabriel said. "I will, I—yes." 

**IV.**

_London, April 1820_

Ash was lying on the settee, propped up on a small mountain of pillows and staring listlessly at the ceiling, when Francis returned. 

He heard the familiar tread of Francis's booted feet in the hall, and then his low voice and Paulson's light reply. Ash couldn't make out the words, but he knew the exchange well enough: "Lord Gabriel is still unwell?" "I'm afraid so, Mr Webster, but he is at home to you." "Thank you, Paulson. Please see that we are not disturbed." Paulson might lack Cyprian's gift for intrigue, but in truth, Ash was grateful that his valet was merely a valet, deeply uncurious and correct to a fault, loyal, and ordinary, and very well compensated for his discretion. 

Francis came in quietly, bolting the door behind him. He was at Ash's side in three long strides, going to his knees on the carpet and catching Ash's hands in his. 

"Francis," Ash protested, even as his cheeks heated. He felt like the heroine in a melodrama. "I'm not dying," he said, trying for carefree and falling rather short of the mark. "I'm not even ill, it's just—" He felt like he had gone ten rounds with Gentleman Jackson. It was hard to think of anything but that awful interview with Mal, to keep from replaying the insults and imprecations Mal had hurled at him, one after another until Ash had felt flayed and shaken, cut into pieces by the sharp edge of Mal's tongue and the cruel, terrible, twisted truth of his accusations. 

Francis bent his head to press a kiss to his knuckles. Ash stared down at his bowed head, his straight brown hair uncharacteristically disheveled, and attempted to muster his nerves. "Julius and that bookman chap of Richard's should be back soon, at least," he said. "Cyprian will know what to do." 

"So everyone keeps saying," Francis said tightly. "I fear we are putting rather too much faith in a valet. Particularly a valet who has left Richard's service." 

Ash knew what Francis meant, but Cyprian was unlike any valet he had ever encountered. "He saved Harry's life, you know," he said. "Harry told me—when there was that dashed awful business with his grandfather, and his man who tried to kill him, Cyprian went to Julius. Harry said Cyprian was the only reason Julius got to him in time." 

"And he orchestrated an ingenious plot to keep Dominic's werewolf from the gallows, I know. It seems we are at point non plus without Mr Cyprian." Francis sighed, and rested his forehead against their clasped hands. "I merely wish we had a solution already in hand, because I am very much afraid of what may happen if we cannot get that letter back." 

"I should never have written it," Ash said miserably. He had cursed himself a hundred times, but it never did any good. It was his own damned fault, his own foolishness, and he should take the consequences—if only those consequences were his to bear alone. 

Francis made a sharp noise of objection and lifted his head. "Maltravers should not have stolen your private correspondence." His eyes were flinty and hard, his thin mouth turned down at the corners; he looked as chilly and bloodless, as unforgiving and sardonic, as he ever had during those interminable years of frustrated longing. Ash had failed, then, to recognize the longing for what it was; he knew it now, knew that beneath Francis's coldness lay unfathomable depths of care for the few people who mattered to him: Ash, his family, his friends. Francis let go of Ash's hands and reached out to stroke his cheek, fingers gentle on his skin. "While I dearly wish that you should refrain in future from committing criminal acts to paper and ink, my love, I wish even more that I had read that letter as you intended." 

"I wish you had it," Ash said, not for the first time. He was so tired—the interview with the Ricardians had been necessary, and he was very grateful for his friends, but his nerves were raw. "I wish—but I didn't _think_. I never do." 

Francis pressed a finger to Ash's lips. "Shh," he said, more gently than Ash deserved. "You misunderstand me. I am not sorry you wrote the letter, Gabriel." 

Ash stared. Francis looked back at him, gaze steady and serious. "I am sorry for the very existence of your damnable cad of a brother, but I am not sorry that you wrote to me as if—" His voice seemed to catch in his throat, and Ash watched as he swallowed hard and tried again. "As if we were free to speak of our affections without risk of prosecution. I am not sorry that you acted without thinking, or that you did not consider the consequences, because if I was sorry for that I should be sorry for you." 

" _Oh_." Ash breathed out shakily, and reached for Francis with both hands. Francis let himself be pulled up off the carpet and onto the settee, and once he was there he gathered Ash into his arms. Ash pressed his face into Francis's shoulder and finally let himself sob, fear and heartache and exhaustion and relief all tangled up together. 

By the time he regained his composure, he had done irreparable damage to Francis's coat, but Francis's long arms were tight around him, his hands in Ash's hair. "I _am_ sorry," Ash said, voice watery. "If not for the letter, than for the trouble I've put us in." 

Francis cuffed him lightly on the back of the head. "You do not need to be." 

"Well," Ash protested, although the conviction in Francis's voice made him feel very warm, "but, for Harry, and—how did it go, with Dominic?" 

Francis snorted. "I spoke with his blasted werewolf." 

Ash lifted his head, surprised. Francis rolled his eyes expressively, and said, "Mason is a seditionist rogue, and a radical of the worst kind, spreading dissent among honest working men. Men like him would demolish the very foundations of our society, destroy everything my family has worked for without a single thought to the lives they would ruin in the process. I cannot imagine what Dominic was thinking—" 

"He reads books," Ash agreed, vehemently. 

"I suppose they have that in common," Francis said dryly, giving Ash an affectionate look. "The point is, as much as Dominic has evidently run mad, Mason clearly cares for him. I find that I—" He shook his head, his hand tightening in Ash's hair. "It is appalling, but I find that I cannot begrudge my friend the desire to protect what is his."

"Oh," Ash said, working that out, and flushed. "So, you and Dominic—" 

"We have resolved our quarrel." Francis twined one of Ash's curls around his finger. "Dominic has never been a fool, whatever his intimate relations. Much as I am loathe to admit it, we need each other now. We may even need Mason, before this is through." 

_Before this was through_. "Francis?" 

"Yes?" 

"I'm frightened," Ash admitted, as baldly as he could manage. "I don't want to flee the country. I still don't speak any French. But if I stay, then Mal can use me against you and Harry and Mason, and Dominic, and Richard, and I can't—I _won't_ let that happen." 

Francis curled one hand around the back of Ash's neck, tugging him down until Ash had no choice but to rest his head on Francis's shoulder; he wasn't about to complain about that, especially not when he could feel Francis's steady heartbeat under his cheek, the gentle rise and fall of his chest. "It may not come to that," Francis said, after a moment. "The first ace in Richard's sleeve, apparently, is Mr Cyprian. If that fails, then we shall see. But whatever happens, I am with you. I—" His voice was rough, frayed around the edges in a way that Ash had never heard from Francis before. "I am frightened, too, but we are together, and we are not alone." 

Ash closed his eyes, blinking back tears, and pressed a kiss to the soft curve of Francis's throat, above his collar and cravat. "Thank you," he said softly. It was entirely inadequate for what he meant, but Francis's arms tightened imperceptibly around him.

They stayed that way for a long time, wrapped together on the couch. Francis was warm, and close, and although Ash was still overwrought, some of the tension bled out of him, knotted muscles uncoiling in the circle of Francis's arms. He was just starting to wonder whether he might be able to sleep for a while, after all, when Francis said abruptly, "But truly, my love, you _must_ learn to speak French." 

It was such an absurd thing to say, under the circumstances, that Ash started to laugh, breathless and terrified, and suddenly weightless with love. 

*

They left Quex's together, the next night, after Cyprian had given everyone their instructions. Francis was frowning, but there was a lightness to his step that hadn't been there yesterday, and a narrow, focused look in his eyes that Ash found deeply reassuring. Francis, whether he wanted to admit it or not, was as much under Cyprian's spell as the rest of them, and as ready to rise to a challenge.

"Are you certain you're all right with this?" Francis asked suddenly. They were walking in the direction of his house, reliably certain that no one was following them. Francis's walking stick tapped restlessly on the cobblestones, but they were both maintaining a leisurely, idle stroll: two gentlemen, slightly foxed, returning home from their club. It was important, Cyprian had said, not to alter their habitual behaviours. 

"Yes," Ash said. 

Francis's silence spoke volumes. 

"He's a bully and brute," Ash said. 

"He's your brother." Francis's voice was gentle, unexpectedly kind in a way Ash suddenly could not bear. 

"He tormented you for years," Ash said harshly, too loud for the quiet street. He lowered his voice, trying to regain his composure. "He hurt you, Francis, and now he wants to hurt me. My friends, people who matter to me—I would be the worst sort of villain if I stood by and let that happen. If I protected myself at anyone else's expense." He scrubbed a hand over his face, grateful for the empty street, the late hour. "But yes, he's still my brother." 

Beside him, Francis stumbled over a loose cobblestone and caught himself on Ash's elbow, linking their arms together—the perfect image of a gentleman who had dipped too deeply and required his friend's support. Francis, Ash knew, had had no more than a single glass of brandy the entire evening, and did not often stumble. "You are a very good liar, my Gabriel," Francis said quietly. "It may save our skins, and I am eminently grateful. But you never need to lie to me." 

Ash shook his head. "You hate him. You _should_ hate him. He deserves this, for what he's done." 

"Yes," Francis agreed, "Maltravers can burn in hell for all I care, and, indeed, I hope he will." His hand tightened on Ash's arm. "I hate Maltravers, but I love you." 

Ash stopped walking. Of necessity Francis stopped with him, and there, in the darkened street, Ash hauled Francis around by the lapels of his coat. Francis's narrow face was in shadow, but his eyes gleamed. Ash wanted very badly to kiss him. 

"I said I would do what I have to," Ash said, instead; he was not _entirely_ an idiot. “Not only because I have put my friends in danger, but because _I choose you_." 

Francis's lips parted; Ash could see the flicker of his tongue, wetting his thin lips. 

"I chose you," he repeated, desperate to make Francis understand. "You, and—and the Ricardians, too. There was no contest, and I am not sorry. It may cost me my family, but I would make that choice again a thousand times. Of course I'm upset, and—and heartsick, that Mal could do this, of course I—but he is who is, and I have made my choice." 

"Grace you him who lost the world for love," said Francis. 

Ash blinked, confused. It wasn't quite the response he'd been expecting—but he wasn't much of one for speech-making, either, and perhaps it showed. "What?" 

Francis smiled, teeth flashing in the dark. "Never mind." He sounded warm, and amused, and very fond, and his gloved hand slid over Ash's in the dark, tucking it back into his arm. "Books again. Perhaps you can ask Mason, once this is all over." 

_Once._ It was hard to imagine, but one way or another, it would be over soon. Maybe it was too much to hope for an outcome that wouldn't destroy him, that wouldn't ruin Francis, that wouldn't send Harry and Mason to the pillory or the gallows; but Ash couldn't quite stop hoping. Despite everything, despite Mal, despair just wasn't in his nature. He turned them back down the street, walking slowly towards home. "Maybe I will. Once this is all over, I might do a great many things." 

**V.**

_London, May 1820_

"I thought we might stay talking later," Gabriel said, untying his neckcloth and dropping it unceremoniously on Francis's dressing table. He was a trifle disguised from the wine, red-cheeked and bright-eyed. 

Francis pushed him gently down to sit on the edge of the bed, and went to his knees to help him with his boots. "You mean you thought you and Harry might open another bottle or two? I can't say I mind—at any rate, everyone seemed a touch preoccupied, don't you think?" 

It had been an intimate dinner at Richard's house in Albemarle Street, a celebration of survival and triumph after the events of the last awful months. A regrouping of their society, now that the danger had passed. Somewhat to Francis's continued surprise and unwilling admiration, neither Cyprian's skill nor his ruthlessness had been overestimated: he had pulled Maltravers's teeth, with their help, and Warminster—frustrated, Gabriel reported, by his heir's refusal to recoup his losses or admit defeat—had banished him to the continent. Francis was fiercely glad to see the back of him. 

"Mmm," Gabriel said, smiling down at Francis as he pulled off his boots. "Maybe a bit, although I thought everyone looked very fine. Harry's new waistcoat was quite—" 

Francis put one hand around the back of Gabriel's neck, and stopped his mouth with a kiss. "Do not," he said firmly, when they parted, "get any ideas." Harry Vane's sartorial taste was not to be emulated at any cost. "Julius encourages him, which is bad enough. You, my dear, do very well as you are." He pushed Gabriel's coat off his shoulders and ran his hands over his waistcoat, feeling the solid muscles of his chest through the fine cloth—cloth chosen with Francis's draper in Lancashire, woven on Webster looms. Gabriel, in the artifacts of his wealth, looked very fine indeed. 

He would look even better out of them. Nevertheless, Francis lingered a moment longer, brushing his thumb and forefinger over the watch fob hanging from Gabriel's waistcoat, the silver shilling shining against the fine fabric. _Now you will always have a shilling_ , he had said, when he'd given it to him. 

Gabriel was watching him, and when Francis looked up, their eyes caught and held. 

"Francis," Gabriel said, his voice gone quiet. "I'm not sorry dinner tonight wasn't an all-night carouse, because I've—I want to speak to you about something." 

Francis stood abruptly, turning away to the dressing table and leaving Gabriel to struggle out of his coat himself. He was certain that whatever Gabriel wanted to say would be perfectly innocuous. But it had occurred to Francis, more than once in the past week, that it might be prudent for him and Gabriel to—to stop, at least for a time. Even with Maltravers thoroughly discredited, there would still be jokes and rumours, talk they could ill afford. The Ricardians were safe, for now, but that did not prevent the criminality of their acts, and they’d all had a strong taste of the inherent risk; it was only sensible to be more cautious than they had been. "What's that?" He kept his voice cool as he untied his cravat and removed his coat. 

"I've been thinking," Gabriel said, which was never a good sign. "Our association has been the most pleasurable of my life. Since our first night together, that card game, you've shown me more than I ever thought possible between men like us." 

_Oh God_ , Francis thought, despairing. He needed Gabriel to stop talking. 

Gabriel did not stop talking. "I never dreamt I would find someone to whom I could so entirely devote myself, and now—now that I can imagine a future, I wonder if—" Francis's knees gave out suddenly, dropping him unceremoniously into a chair. 

"Oh, God damn it," Gabriel said, in an entirely different voice. "I am making a dreadful muddle of this, aren't I?" 

"That depends entirely," Francis said through his teeth, "on what you are trying to do." 

Gabriel was in front of him before he'd finished speaking, catching one of Francis's hands in his own as he sank to his knees. "I am _trying_ ," he said, with that little self-deprecating laugh that made Francis want to hunt down every single person who had ever made Lord Gabriel Ashleigh doubt himself. "But—how _does_ one ask another gentleman to become his beloved spouse?" 

For one long moment, in the shockwave that followed the words, Francis was entirely bereft of speech. By the time he had recovered himself, Gabriel was staring down at Francis's hand, still clutched in his, and worrying at his full lower lip with his teeth.

"One—doesn't, typically," Francis said at last, in a voice that creaked. How could he have thought, even for a moment, that his Gabriel would be _sensible_? 

"I never intended marry." Gabriel's voice was low. "As my father's youngest son, you see, it was not thought important. Even if my family did not despise me, there was never any reason; and being as I am, I knew I would not make a tolerable husband for any lady, even if duty did demand that I come up to scratch. I'm a wastrel, I suppose, but I never considered how I should—how I should ask." 

"Gabriel—" 

"Shh." Gabriel pressed his free hand against Francis's mouth. "I love you. I know there is no legal binding, or, or religious observance, or public acknowledgement. That it does not stop the risk, that we might not even tell our friends. But I still—" His voice cracked. "I could not make you keep my house, but I wish that you will take me, and everything I possess, as your own." 

Francis seized Gabriel's hand and dragged it off his mouth, and then he was sliding off the chair and into a furious kiss. Gabriel's hands knotted themselves in Francis's hair, clutching at his head as he licked into Francis's mouth. Francis bit at his lower lip, where Gabriel's teeth had worried a dent, and sucked on his tongue, lewd and hot and dark with intent. 

Gabriel drew back after a dizzying interlude, breathing hard. "Wait, does this mean— _Francis_ —" 

Francis kissed his ear, and bit a string of stinging kisses down his neck as Gabriel's head tilted back, baring his throat. "You idiot," Francis said softly, "I thought you were about to tell me you were through with me." 

Gabriel's eyes widened. " _God_ , no. Never." 

"Eventually, that became clear." Francis kissed his mouth again, lush and wet. "I pray you will not frighten me like that again." 

"I'll try," Gabriel said, with admirable sincerity, and tugged Francis back in for another kiss. 

They kissed for a long time, kneeling together on the floor of Francis's bedroom—Gabriel's bedroom, as often as not, as often as they could manage without arousing undue suspicion. Francis wondered if they might be able to join their households, someday, how they could do so safely; he thought he might ask Cyprian's advice. 

Gabriel's hands were busy while they kissed, getting them both out of the remainder of their clothing. Francis was still in his boots, and had to stand to remove them; Gabriel pushed him back towards the bed, half tangled in his own shirt and breeches, laughing. Francis sat, and Gabriel got his linen off and sank back to his knees to help him take off his boots. It was the reverse of their position from earlier, and Francis looked down at his bowed golden head, his broad, bare shoulders, and rode the wave of desire that washed through him, shuddering a little as Gabriel removed his boots and stockings and breeches and drawers. 

Once Francis was naked, Gabriel wasted no time taking him in hand. His grip was firm and familiar, nearly as comfortable with what Francis preferred as Francis was himself. Francis's prick was already painfully hard, wet at the tip; Gabriel stroked his thumb over the head and then raised his hand to his mouth for a taste, eyes fluttering closed as his tongue darted out to lick at his thumb. Francis was having trouble breathing, and he cried out involuntarily when Gabriel bent his head to take Francis's prick in his mouth. 

Gabriel's mouth was hot and skilled on Francis's prick, utterly familiar and no less devastating for its familiarity. Francis spread his legs for him, groaning as Gabriel's hands clamped down on his thighs, and tangled his fingers in Gabriel's hair. Francis had learned early, to his somewhat astonished delight, that Gabriel did not care at all for politeness, and preferred it when Francis lost himself in the heat of his mouth, fucked his throat and left him hoarse and raspy for hours afterwards. He did so now, hips stuttering up off the bed while Gabriel sucked his cock, feeling him swallow and moan around him. 

He was nearing the edge when Gabriel released him for a moment, gasping for breath. Francis looked down at him and nearly came on sight: Gabriel's cheeks were flushed, his mouth swollen, the look in his eyes scorching and heated and entirely overwhelming—and then Gabriel sucked him down again and Francis did come, spending hotly in Gabriel's mouth.

Gabriel rested his forehead against Francis's hip, breathing hard as Francis shook. As soon as he was able, Francis pulled Gabriel onto the bed, pressed him back against the pillows and kissed him, tasting himself on Gabriel's tongue. Gabriel's hips jerked against his, his prick pressing hard and wet into Francis's hip, and Francis released his mouth to slide down the bed. 

"I won't last," Gabriel warned, as Francis wrapped his hand around him and bent his head for a slow lick. Francis loved the taste of him, salty and familiar on his tongue. 

"You need not," Francis said, smiling, and took him in his mouth. Gabriel gasped, limbs flailing, one hand grasping Francis's shoulder and the other the headboard; he very nearly kneed Francis in the face, but Francis put both hands on his hips and held him down. He took his time, despite Gabriel's clear desperation; he was a sweet, heavy weight in Francis's mouth, hard and slick, and Francis loved it, loved him, could never have enough of this—and then Gabriel groaned, suddenly, and spent in a rush. Francis swallowed, coughing a little as he drew back, and then Gabriel was hauling him back up the bed by his shoulders and kissing him and kissing him and kissing him. 

"You never answered my question," Gabriel pointed out, a little dreamily, some time later. They were tangled together in the sheets, sharing a single pillow. Gabriel had one arm draped over his hip, heavy and possessive. 

Francis kissed him. "My Gabriel," he said, because truly, it was hardly a question. "I will marry you in any way you like." 

Gabriel's smile was dazzlingly bright. "In that case, I suppose my reputation is repaired, and neither of us has been ruined." 

"We'll have to work on that," Francis said solemnly, and drew him back down.

**Author's Note:**

> The title, and the line Francis quotes, are both from John Dryden's _All For Love, or The World Well Lost_ (1678), which is a very ridiculous tragedy about Antony and Cleopatra. Francis is probably being needlessly dramatic.


End file.
